Megan Chance (16 page)

Becky burst into peals of laughter. She was still laughing when Samuel climbed to his feet, brushing bits of straw from his clothing.

"Stop it, Becky!" he demanded crossly. He advanced, small fists clenched at his sides. "I said stop it!"

"You—you looked so silly," she said, giggling. "Fallin' on the floor like that—"

"Stop it!"

"Ah, it's okay, Sammy." John brushed by his friend, shrugging. "She's just a dumb girl."

"I am not a dumb girl!" Becky's laughter abruptly turned to indignation. "You take that back right now, Johnny. Sammy's the dumb one. He's the one who fell."

Conor only half heard the exchange as he went farther into the barn. He looked around wearily. How much comfort did six small children need, anyway? Was the floor soft enough? He glanced up to the loft, his bastion of quiet. Would he have to bring them up there? The question brought a quick frown. He couldn't watch them all the time; who knew what kind of mischief they'd get into with all his possessions shoved haphazardly against the wall—

"
Aaaaaaaah
!" Becky's drawn-out scream split his skull.

Conor spun on his heel, dropping the blankets where he stood. The children were gathered in a circle, avidly watching as Samuel pummeled his little sister.

Conor surged forward. "Stop!" Then, as his cry went unheeded, he pushed through Peter and Ida. "Dammit, I said stop." He grabbed Samuel's collar, hauling him off the sobbing girl. The boy's feet slid out from underneath him and he plopped to the ground with a whoosh of air.

Conor paid little heed to Samuel as he knelt beside Becky and helped her to her feet. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Tears streamed over her cheeks to mix with her runny, snuffling nose. She wiped a pudgy hand across her face. "He—he hit me."

Conor looked over his shoulder to Samuel. "There's no excuse for hitting a girl. Especially your sister. Even if she did deserve it."

"She was laughing at me." Samuel said sullenly.

"Better get used to it." Conor got to his feet and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief. He wiped at Becky's face with unthinking roughness before she grabbed the cloth away from him.

John spoke up, his freckled face wrinkled in confusion. "Why should we get used to it?"

"Because boys are silly, that's why," Ida said haughtily.

Conor sighed. Ida Johnson was going to be a tough one when she grew up. She was already tossing those brown curls like a debutante. "I'm afraid Ida's right," he informed the boys dourly.

"Silly?" Samuel sputtered. "We are not! Girls are the silly ones. They—"

"Sammy," Conor said patiently. "What has your mother taught you about girls?"

"Uh—mostly not to hit 'em. But then Becky sticks out her tongue—"

"That's the whole problem," Conor said drily. "Girls have tongues. And they know how to use them. As long as they can speak, you'll never win."

"But that's not fair!" Little Peter pulled his thumb from his mouth long enough to complain.

"It is too fair," Ida said.

"So what does a guy do, then, Mr. Roarke?" John wondered.

Conor leaned close. "Learn how to lose gracefully, Johnny. It's an old trick. Works every time."

"I don't get it."

"You will someday." Conor raked his hand through his hair. "Sammy, Johnny, why don't you two help me lay out the blankets?"

"Do we hafta sleep with the cows?" Becky eyed the animals skeptically, still wiping at her runny nose with his handkerchief.

Conor sighed. He looked up at the loft. His private sanctuary was about to be invaded.

"We'll all sleep up there," he said. "Can everyone climb the ladder?"

Before they could answer, Conor grabbed the blankets and stepped up the ladder, motioning for the others to follow him. When they were secure in the loft, he busied the boys with laying out the makeshift beds while he tried his best to push his belongings into dark corners.

It didn't take long to get the children settled. The excitement of the day was wearing off, and the cold night made them grateful to climb beneath the heavy wool blankets. Conor felt as if every muscle in his body was stretched to the limit as he crawled between his own covers. Sleep would come easily to him tonight.

But it didn't. It eluded him nimbly, and he lay there listening to the soft breathing of the children as he stared at the ceiling only a few feet above his head.

His muscles ached, but there was a subtle energy sneaking along his spine, a feeling that things weren't quite finished. He couldn't chase the images of Sari from his mind. Over and over again he saw the eerily blue-white coloring of her skin in the moonlight, the almost black passion in her eyes, her lips swollen from his rough kiss.

Sari Travers was no ordinary woman. She was an addiction. His addiction. How had he ever thought he could get her out of his blood?

For a moment he toyed with the idea of sneaking from the loft to the soddy. The women would be sleeping on the floor—all the men were with Charles. He could sneak around them, silently climb the ladder to where she was sleeping. She always slept as though someone had thrown her onto the bed, with one arm crooked on the pillow, fingers tangled in her own hair, her body twisted, open, ready for the taking.

Conor tightened his hand into a fist, struggling for control, remembering her words.
More time
, she'd said. How much more? A week? A day? An hour?

"Stop it!" The loud whisper startled him. It was almost an answer to his thoughts.

"Don't!" came the voice again. "You're taking up too much room!"

Conor sighed. "Becky, go to sleep."

"I'm trying. Samuel keeps pushing me."

"I do not."

"Yes, you do, you—"

"Shut up, Becky!" John grumbled.

Conor rose to one elbow wearily. "What's wrong?"

"I can't sleep," Becky said plaintively. "I want to go to Mama."

"Baby," Samuel commented acidly.

"I'm not!"

"Are too."

"Am not—"

"All right, all right." Conor sat up, rubbing his face. "What would help you go to sleep, Becky?"

"Well—"

"Mizz Travers said you'd tell us a story," Ida offered helpfully.

"A story." Conor took a deep breath. "Would that help, Becky?"

"It might." Her voice was tiny in the darkness.

A story. Conor closed his eyes, mentally flipping through his inventory of tales. As Jamie O'Brien he'd been known as a master storyteller, but those adventures were too ribald for the children. He thought back to his childhood. There had been no stories then, of that he was sure. The dragons he'd been fighting had been all too real, and there were no white knights to find him shelter at night or something to eat.

"Something with soldiers," John suggested.

Ida sounded disgusted. "Not soldiers. I want to hear about princesses and fairies."

Princesses. Fairies. The words struck a chord in Conor and brought to mind the only story he could remember.

"All right." His words silenced them. Six pairs of eyes glimmered in the darkness. "I've got a story."

S
he couldn't help herself.

Sari stepped outside, drawing her coat more tightly about her, closing the door quietly so as not to wake the women sleeping on the floor inside. The frigid night air cut through the thin flannel of her nightgown, freezing her legs. She curled her fingers into the thick wool of her coat in an attempt to keep them warm.

This was ridiculous. She knew it, yet she couldn't help it. For an hour she'd lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the fading gossip of her guests as they fell asleep. She'd relived the evening in her mind, remembering the way Conor had looked in the moonlight, fighting the restless desire that gnawed at her even as she warned herself that it was better to stay away.

But she couldn't forget the way he'd looked at her. She couldn't forget the painful desire she'd seen in his eyes or his tenderness when he touched her hair. She wanted to know—had to know—what it meant. All she had to do was see him, or hear his voice. Then she would know if he was as affected as she was, or if their kisses mattered to him at all.

The barn loomed in the darkness. Sari took a deep breath, pressing back against the closed door. Earlier she'd sent him there, thinking that she needed time to think. But once she reached her bed, she realized it was the last thing she wanted to do. Thinking would come soon enough. Now all she wanted was reassurance. All she wanted were the dreams that had seemed plausible in the cold, blue moonlight.

Just his voice, she told herself. Once she heard it, she would have the strength to go back to bed, to banish her thoughts and sleep.

Before she lost her courage, she hurried across the expanse of field that stretched between the barn and the house. Her hair blew into her face, hard little pellets of ice stung her cheeks. She stumbled against a clump of icy grass near the side of the barn, catching herself just before she fell into the wall.

She pushed away, moved along the barn to the door. She stopped there, her heart pounding. This had been foolish. What was she doing out here on this cold night? What did she expect? Conor was in the barn with six children, and they were probably all asleep by now. What had she been thinking—that she would sneak up into the loft and somehow wake him?

She closed her eyes. She was an idiot. If she'd waited a few moments longer, probably the longing to see him would have waned. She'd be warm and comfortable in bed instead of huddled against the barn wall in the chilling prairie night, feeling foolish and naive—

"All right. I've got a story."

Sari froze. His voice was muffled through the door, rough with weariness and quiet, but she heard him. The sound of it sent relief speeding through her.

"Does it have soldiers?"

"No soldiers, Johnny, but plenty of magic."

"But I want—"

"Shut up and let him talk!" Becky's shrill voice cut the darkness. "Okay, Mr. Roarke, you can tell us now."

Sari smiled. She could imagine Conor's face, his expression a mix of resignation and kindness. She wished she could see him.

She pressed farther along the door, resting her hands and cheek on the wood, now oblivious of the cold. What story would he tell? He was a wonderful storyteller, she remembered. Or at least he had been when he was Jamie O'Brien.

"It was the middle of a cold night. The moon was big and bright in the sky, and it lit the way for the girl who left her father's castle to walk in the woods."

"A princess?"

"Yes, she was a princess, Becky. Princess Christabel."

Christabel
. Sari inhaled sharply. It felt as if something had fallen on her heart. Her favorite poem.

"She sounds pretty."

"She was. Very pretty. She had long thick hair the color of chocolate, and her eyes were big and brown—like maple syrup. Her laugh sounded as if the finest musicians in the world had gathered to play."

"She sounds like Mizz Travers," Samuel noted matter-of-factly.

She waited for Conor's response, wondering if the description had been deliberate, wondering if he truly saw her that way or if it was a convenient fancy for the children.

"Yes," he said softly. "Christabel and Mrs. Travers look just the same."

Sari heard the soft catch in his voice when he said her name, heard the quick ache, she knew all she needed to know. That kiss had mattered. She was right to feel as shaken as she did. For a moment the joy engulfed her. Even if nothing came of it, even if he betrayed her again, she would remember this joy.

Conor cleared his throat. "Christabel went into the woods all alone that night to pray for her knight, who was far away. Before she could finish her prayer, she heard a moan. She thought at first it was the wind, but there was no wind that night; the forest was still."

"What was it, a monster?" Peter whispered. "Shhh!"

"No. No monster," Conor told them. "It was a lady so beautiful, Christabel could barely speak for wonder. The lady was dressed all in white, with jewels of every color in her long blond hair. She was like a fairy queen, but she seemed very sad.

'"Who are you?' Christabel asked, and the lady said, 'My name is Geraldine, and I am so tired, I can barely speak. Please don't be afraid, please help me.' She told Christabel that she had been kidnapped by five knights, who left her there to wait for them while they rode off. She didn't remember how long she'd been there, because she was bewitched."

"By fairies?" The merest whisper of a voice.

Sari put her hand to her mouth to stop her laughter. He had them wrapped around his finger, enraptured by the tale. Almost as if he were a big brother. Or their father.

"Or so Geraldine said. Christabel was a kind princess, and she begged Geraldine to come home with her so that Christabel's father, Sir Leoline, could protect them. But when they got there, Geraldine was so quiet, Christabel was worried that the lady was sick. She grew even more worried when Geraldine began to talk—because she wasn't talking to Christabel, or even to anyone Christabel could see."

"She was talking to ghosts!" Johnny piped up.

"In a way. She was talking to spirits."

"Like fairies?"

"No, not like fairies. She was talking to the spirit of Christabel's mother, who had died a long time ago. Christabel thought she heard a warning." Conor paused. "But then Geraldine told the spirit of the lady queen to leave, and she told Christabel not to look while she changed her clothes."

"I would have looked anyway," Johnny said.

"Christabel was like you, John. She looked too. And what she saw—well, what she saw was terrible."

"Tell us!"

"She saw," Conor lowered his voice dramatically, "that Geraldine's whole side was gone."

"Gone?" Ida's voice quivered.

"Like a bear got her?" Samuel asked.

"Just like that."

"I don't like this story," Becky whined.

"Oh, it's just getting good!"

"What did Christabel do, Mr. Roarke?" Ida asked. "Did she run away?"

"No."

He would make a good father. Sari smiled at the thought. He was so good with the children, and she knew it was because he genuinely liked them, because he respected what they said. The thought filled her with wistfulness. She wondered if he even wanted children of his own, if he thought about it at all.